It appears Trump isn’t building a ballroom; he’s constructing a billion-dollar panic room he can throw his election-stealing co-conspirators a party in. Meanwhile, this January 6th slush fund isn’t a thank-you for a failed coup attempt; that’s what 1,600-plus get-out-of-jail-free pardons were for. No, this 1.7+ billion dollars of taxpayer money is a down-payment-dog whistle to anyone willing to help this tiny orange dick grow into an enormous orange dictator. So, The Insurrectionist-In-Chief not only plans to bribe the band back together for 2028, he’s already designed the venue for the afterparty gig. Giving hope to all the other spoiled fat kids in America, that even when Daddy dies, Uncle Sam will pay your fake friends to come to your party.
The CBS News Article Quoted – https://www.cbsnews.com/news/trump-anti-weaponization-fund-january-6-capitol-riot
Because Why Be In Harm’s Way When The Ecstasy Kicks In…
In Today’s Palate Cleanser, we learn a little-known fact about your boy CEO. I love me some Will Ferrell. It doesn’t matter if he’s hosting SNL or giving the transcontinental road trip a whole new meaning by driving his transitioning bestie cross-country. He is one of the few comedic greats who can leave me in tears, on sight alone. Sometimes for reasons he never even intended. You see, one of my best friends died about a decade ago, not even two weeks after we had buried my Mom and 3 other close friends. His nickname was Pitt, and he was a 6’5’ self-described “Ginzaloon”, so he was tall, dark, and a handful. I mean, he was the type of friend you request his wake, be open casket, because deep down, you can’t believe he’s dead. And no, not because only the good die young, but that his elaborate excuses to skip work had increased to a point of no return. So faking his own death felt like an inevitable progression. Pitt had killed off so many friends and family members at work that his boss wondered if he should hire day laborers to carry his coffin. Only to learn at the funeral that Pitt was much closer to a bullshit artist than a friendless orphan. Even to this day, I wouldn’t be shocked to get a text from Pitt saying: “You up? Come dig me up. You know where I am!! I heard you crying at the cemetery, ya big pussy!! I want to go scare the living shit out of MA and my Kid… You in? Bring beers, cigarettes, and all the Axe Body Spray!!” Anyhow, before he “departed,” Pitt and I would often Netflix-and-Chill. Which, for heterosexual life-partners, means smoke, eat, and watch Will Ferrell movies til we pissed the couch laughing. Even if we weren’t together and Blades of Glory came on Comedy Central, he would call me out of the blue, and I would drop whatever boring promise I had made my wife. So we could hysterically laugh at “Chazz Michael Michaels” over the phone like high school girls whose intimate knowledge of “Alimony” would soon grow from the Weird Al Yankovic cover of “Mony Mony,” to the lone reason my soon-to-be Ex would give me her new address. Nevertheless, Will Ferrell’s goofy mug still does it for me today. It transports me back to those simpler times when calling your bff on the phone wasn’t considered a hate crime, and Donald Trump was just the guy on “The Apprentice” who was fucking underage girls. I’m just grateful, Pitt, and I shared so many memorable laughs, and he died peacefully, before I was ever forced to contemplate strangling him for turning full-blown MAGA.
When Your Ride-Or-Die Chooses The Latter…
THE-ANTI-SOCIAL-MEDIA 